Page 87 of Made for Saints

“Emilia,” he said, his voice low and steady, but there was an unmistakable warning in his tone. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I…” My voice faltered, my mind scrambling for an explanation that wouldn’t make things worse. “I didn’t want to stay in the car.”

His jaw tightened, and he closed the distance between us in two long strides. “I told you to stay put,” he said, his voice sharp but not raised. Somehow, that made it even more intimidating.

“I’m not a child, Dante,” I shot back, finding my voice despite the tremor in my hands. “You don’t get to order me around.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might actually argue. But then he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand what you just walked into,” he said, his tone quieter now, though no less intense. “I keep telling you this isn’t a game, Emilia. These people—” He gestured toward the crumpled figure of Mikhail, who was still groaning on the floor. “—they don’t play by the same rules. If they’d recognized you before I got here…”

He trailed off, his expression hardening again. “You’re lucky I showed up when I did.”

“Lucky?” I repeated, my voice rising. “You think this is about luck? Maybe if you and my father didn’t keep me in the dark about everything, I wouldn’t have to sneak around just to feel like I have some control over my life!”

Dante’s eyes flashed, and he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Control?” he echoed, his voicedropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think flirting with a Bratva soldier in a dive bar is control? You think putting yourself in danger is some kind of rebellion?.”

My breath hitched as he closed the distance between us, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. His dark eyes burned with anger, but there was something else there too—something raw and unspoken that made my pulse quicken. I wanted to yell at him, to push him away, but my body betrayed me, rooted to the spot as his words sliced through me.

“I wasn’t trying to rebel,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just...I needed to get away.”

“Get away?” Dante repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “From what? Your cushy life in your father’s estate? The guards who risk their lives to keep you safe? Do you have any idea what it’s like out here, Emilia? What people like him—” he jerked his head toward Mikhail, still slumped on the floor, “—would do to someone like you?”

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening under the weight of his words. “I’m not some fragile little girl, Dante. I can take care of myself.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Take care of yourself?” He stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “You don’t even carry a weapon. You walked into enemy territory without so much as a knife in your pocket, and you think you can take care of yourself?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off, his voice rising. “Do you know how easy it would’ve been for Romanov to take you? To use you as leverage against your father? Do you even know how to throw a punch, Emilia? Or were you planning to charm your way out of a kidnapping?”

His words stung, each one hitting harder than the last. I hated how he made me feel—small, naive, like a liability. But more than that, I hated that he was right. I’d been reckless, and I’d put myself in danger without even realizing it.

“I didn’t know,” I said quietly, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t know who he was.”

Dante sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “That’s the problem, Emilia. You don’t know. You don’t know the enemies your family has, the alliances we’ve made, the lines we can’t cross. And if you keep pulling stunts like this, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

The weight of his words settled over me, and for the first time that night, I felt the full gravity of what I’d done. I’d been so focused on escaping the suffocating confines of my life that I hadn’t stopped to think about the risks. About the consequences.

“I’m sorry,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”

Dante held up a hand, cutting me off. “Save it. Apologies won’t keep you alive.”

The silence between us stretched on for what felt like forever, the distant sounds of the city fading into the background. My gaze dropped to the ground, shame and frustration warring within me. I hated feeling like this—like I’d let him down, like I was a problem he had to fix.

But then his hand reached out, his fingers brushing against my chin as he tilted my face up to meet his gaze. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the anger that had radiated off him moments ago.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “You can’t keep doing this, Emilia. You can’t keep running away, putting yourself in danger just to prove a point.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I just...I feel trapped, Dante. Like I’m suffocating. And tonight, I just wanted to feel free. Just for a little while.”

His expression softened, the hard edges of his anger giving way to something more complicated. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching mine like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You want to feel free?” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “Then I’ll teach you how to survive. I’ll teach you howto fight, how to defend yourself. But this?” He gestured toward the bar, his jaw tightening again. “This isn’t freedom, Emilia. It’s suicide.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. There was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at me, that made my breath catch. It wasn’t just anger or frustration—it was something deeper, something raw and unguarded. And for the first time, I saw the cracks in Dante’s carefully constructed armor.

“You’ll teach me?” I asked quietly, the words barely audible over the sound of my pulse thrumming in my ears.

“Yes,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Because if you’re going to insist on sneaking out and playing these games, you damn well better know how to protect yourself.”

His hand was still on my chin, his touch warm and steady, and I hated the way it made me feel—like I was tethered to him, like he was the only thing keeping me grounded in that moment. I wanted to pull away, to tell him I didn’t need his help, but the truth was, I did. And we both knew it.

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